Bird As Fish

Even at midnight, the city wasn't quiet. The headlights of the passing cars reflected off the falling snow, making halos on the streets and the blinking neon lights made the midnight into twilight. The cars still whizzing by, even at this hour, splashing dirty slush up onto the sidewalks and onto irate pedestrians, who walked by with wool up to their noses. They carried small black umbrellas, hoping it would protect them from the snow-rain.

The only exception was the working girls, in all manner of explicit fashion under their coats, smoking their young lungs to sleep. They stood under any roof they could find, trying to keep some semblance of warmth.

Every now and then, one leaves and walks down the street to either get a coffee or to find better hunting grounds. A platinum blonde in a black leather skirt leaves the waning crowd for a small, dim cafe. She brushes off her shoulders and saunters in. The place is all full, except for a few seats by the bar. She takes one in the corner, a black, mahogany stool, that matches the rest of the decoration. The bartender approaches her and then leaves with her coffee order. Black, she says she wants it.

There is clapping over in the corner by the stage. A fat man with anvil hair waddles off and a young black kid replaces him. He is maybe 18, no more. The blonde does not remember that she is only 16. With nothing else to do, and her coffee not yet come, she listens to him, at first carelessly, then intently. Then, without even meaning it to happen, tears begin to stream down her face. His poetry is meaningful, powerful. Her coffee comes, in a fat white china mug. She turns her face to the corner, hoping no one will notice her.

A tap on the shoulder. The young black kid is standing there. He says he saw her crying and hoped she was okay. She says she is. He didn't want to be rude but was wondering if she needed a place to stay that night. Of course not. Did she need a better place to stay the night? She wonders loosely if the makeup over her bruised face has come off already. She wonders to herself if she really wants to go back out there again tonight to work. She says she guesses so but wonders what the kid wants for it. Nothing. She is too tired and cold to scoff and follows him away.

It is a small white house. He lives with his mama, he says. Warmth greets her as he opens the heavy door. There is the smell of dinner in the air. The house is quiet. He pulls out the couchbed with its crisp white linen sheets, says goodnight and walks down the hall.

She sinks into the bed, exhales slowly, and sleeps.

A baby cries. She gets up in confusion. A small light. A woman's voice tells her to go back to bed. She does.

Morning light creeps over the horizon. She stretches, realizing she wore her coat and leather skirt to bed. That is fine. She doesn't want them seeing what is under her coat.

A black woman with a baby under her arms greets her and introduces her to Angela, the neighbor's baby girl. The woman takes care of the baby most nights because her mother works. Did she want some breakfast? No, she would be going now. The woman presses her. No, thank you. She folds up the bed and marches out into the frosty morning air.

But she does not even make it to the corner. Her high heels slip on the icy sidewalk and the girl cries out in pain, as her hands and delicate fingers come in contact with the frozen cement, and her ankle contorts into an unnatural pose. The woman rushes out to help her back into the house. Now she would have to stay for breakfast.

It is porridge. Warm and soothing. The table is small and creaky and the old honey coloured chair shifts under her weight. The yellowing cupboards comfortably clunk shut as the woman calmly gets things ready for the meal. The oatmeal bubbles in the battered aluminum pot atop the old gas stove and it is almost ready to be eaten. The kitchen is warmed by its cooking and she is reminded of home.

The little baby is sitting in the plastic chair talking to itself. Her mother will be by in about an hour or so to pick her up. By the way, the lady's name is Charlotte. Her hair is beginning to grey at the sides of her curly temples, and her cheeks are large and round. A slight double chin protrudes from beneath a white turtleneck. A red and white checked apron covers her ample bosom. Taking the pot off the stove, and beginning to serve it into the green rooster bowls, she waits curiously for the girl's name

Foxy is not appropriate, she thinks. And desperately tries to think of something. Maggie is the first thing she thinks of and says it.

The floor creaks across the house. Heavy footsteps. The young black kid steps into the kitchen, kisses his mama and Angela. His name is Jilangy. He shakes her hand. Charlotte says grace, Maggie unsure of what to do. Soon the prayer is finished and they all eat - she hungrily. They talk about how Jilangy's poetry went last night. Maggie hopes he doesn't mention how she was crying. He doesn't

Jilangy leaves for school. The doorbell rings. Two children and a mother. A boy and a little girl. Charlotte babysits them. Maggie is uncomfortable. She shifts in her chair and softly clears her throat. Nobody notices her. Her face grimaces in pain as she slowly rotates her ankle around.

The children joyously bounce into the room and look at her, and stop, a little shyly. Maggie does not meet their gaze. They approach, their small sweat shirts and jogging pants making little rustling noises as they come close to her. Briefly Maggie looks up. Their dark eyes are fixed on her, intently. What is her name? Maggie. Niabi and Jeff are their names. Niabi tentatively touches the older girl's fingers and leans against her knee. Jeff holds his sister's hand.

Would she like to read them a story? She guesses so. Niabi takes her hand, leads her into the livingroom and both siblings choose a story and both vie for the honour of having theirs read first. Niabi wins out. Jeff pouts for a moment but soon he is seated possessively on her left knee and Niabi on her right. Maggie reads in a quiet voice to the children. All three look up as Charlotte comes into the room.

She smiles. Would Maggie like a shower? No, reluctantly, she answers. It is a shame because everything is all ready in the bathroom for her. Alright. The children clamour. They want Maggie to finish the story. She does. The book is closed, the soft warm pages brush against her fingertips. The children want another one. But Charlotte insists just as the baby's mother comes to the door.

The shower is down the hall and to the night. The carpet is warn but soft under her stockinged feet as she silently plods towards the bathroom. Under her hand, the cold metal knob turns. There is a soft mellow light brightening the room and on the plastic countertop, thick green towels await her finishing. A set of clothes on the other side of the white sink also sit in waiting.

Maggie undresses cautiously, her coat, skirt, and brassiere fall to the yellowed linoleum floor, one after the other. Warm water begins to *tick, tick* on the floor of the small shower stall as her hand touches the cold metal knob and turns and the water falls off her shoulders, around her breasts.

The scent of violets fills the small cubicle as she pours the silken shampoo into her hand.

When the shower is finished, the floor damp beneath her feet and beads of water clinging to the mirror, she puts on the clothes. Not for a very long time has she worn anything so cheap, so simple and comfortable. Cleaning the bathroom, in appreciation of the generous gift, Maggie hangs up the towels and opens the squeaky door.

She reads another story to the young children and by that time, lunch is in the air. Tomato soup and tuna melts. They all sit together to eat, Maggie in uncomfortable silence. She manages to mumble her thanks to Charlotte. The older woman brushes it off and says it is nothing, smiling. After lunch, Charlotte whisks the children out to play in the back yard, all bundled up in snowsuits, while she begins to peel potatoes for supper. Maggie is invited to join.

So where does she live? Now it starts says the look in Maggie's eyes. And that ain't none of her business. Charlotte's eyes say that she is taken aback by the abruptness from her silent guest. Both continue peeling. She was simply wondering if Maggie needed a place to stay for a while. No, she doesn't, she doesn't at all. Her ankle is fine and she will be leaving shortly. She is welcome back anytime.

Maggie looks suspiciously at the older woman. The young girl expected to fight back and become nasty which would end up in her being thrown out of the house. It would extract her anyways from this very uncomfortable state she now finds herself in.

Maggie shrugs.

Determined to help with the woman's supper, Maggie stays until the end, which is rather longer than she thought it would be. After the potatoes were peeled they had to be washed, diced, cooked, mashed and seasoned. The carrots had to be peeled, sliced and cooked. The cake had to be measured, mixed, baked and iced. Not to mention the roast beef.

By the end, the result looks so good that Maggie doesn't want to leave. Mc Donalds doesn't even compare to this. But something in her heart screams to get the hell outta here as fast as she can.

The door squeaks open. Jilangy pops his head in, his afro covered in white snow. Supper smells delicious he says. He asks if Maggie will stay for dinner. No she will not. Why not? His eyes sparkle and his mouth curves upward, his dark eyebrows raise in anticipation of an answer. It's delicious, he reminds her. Maggie has an appointment. They will save her some. Fine. They can save her some. Until it rots green in the refrigerator, she thinks.

In the bathroom once again, changing out of her borrowed clothes, Maggie curses. Why did she ever agree to spend the night? Why did she ever agree to have breakfast? And why, why in hell was she wearing this woman's clothing? She shakes her head, an inward agreement never to do this again.

In the hall, in the livingroom, her face in the kitchen to say goodbye. And she was so close to the door when they stop her with conversation. What time should they expect her back this evening? Dont ever expect me back, she thinks and waves her hand noncommitally.

Finally, out the door, the bitter cold and falling snow welcoming. She shakes her head. What was that? Some wierd family. Crazy? Maggie shrugs .

Back on the corner within the hour, talking to the other girls there. It's getting dark now, and she is ready to get back to work. A tall imposing man approaches. Maggie remains poker-faced but her stomach shrinks with fear.

Where was Foxy last night? He had a job for her. She swears and spits at his feet and walks toward the cafe. Something of the strange family had gotten into her.

He follows, waving his arms around, shouting profanities into the air. There is so much cursing that is is hardly discernable what he is talking about.

Maggie shrugs.

The man grabs her shoulder and spins her around, until they are face to face. His hands clench tightly on her arms until she cries out in pain. He spits in her face and tells her how lucky she is he is gonna let her off easy this time. He drags her into the alley beside the cafe and smacks her cheeks so hard, it makes her head reel. Soon she is on the ground. He spits on her a final time and leaves her wondering why she didn't stay for roast beef. But if she hadn't wanted a warm bed in the first place...

© 2003 All rights reserved MJ Jackson
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